


Cake Diplomacy

by Umbralpilot



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Culture, Blood mention (in the context of cooking), Canon Compliant, Comedy, Cooking, Fluff and Humor, Galra Culture, Galra Opera, Gen, Hunk (Voltron)-centric, Season/Series 06, The kind of fic one has no excuses for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 12:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15581691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbralpilot/pseuds/Umbralpilot
Summary: Hunk indulges his three main interests: Cooking, tinkering, and learning about the culture of the alien race who may or may not be his mortal enemies.





	Cake Diplomacy

**Author's Note:**

> A good anon on fail_fandomanon beta read this. Thank you, good anon!

In retrospect, Hunk thinks he should’ve realized Dayak wasn’t going to let him off the hook with his training. Not even after the whole saving an untold number of lives by pushing array plates with his lion’s face like a badass show. He should’ve realized because it’s in the nature of the thing. The Galra thing. Victory or death. Killing thrust. Pain makes you smarter, he totally gets that. He doesn’t even protest that much when, on return to Lotor’s base, she practically drags him away by the ear. It’s got to hurt a lot more with big Galra ears, right, so he’s got nothing to complain about. Weights and history lessons and smacks and all. It’s just, by the end of the day, he’s got _questions_.

“When I finish this – “

“Silence!” Read: _smack_. “Mastering the Galra Way is the work of years of gainful agony – “

“Okay, when I finish _level one_. Do I at least get to celebrate? Go to a Galra barbecue or something?”

It’s this question that makes Dayak pause – really, for the first time since they started on the Hunk’s Gainful Agony Adventure Hour. She brings the switch up beside her face like she needs to have it whispering in her ear while she’s thinking. Hunk doesn’t drop the weights from shoulder-height. See what a good student he is?

“What is a _barbecue_?”

Not a Galra thing, apparently. Hunk blinks. He’d been certain if anyone in the galaxy was into putting slabs of meat on a red-hot grill, the Galra would be it. “Uh, you know grilling? I know you guys grill, I saw it at Vrepit Sal’s – “

Oh god, he was _not_ ready for that smack. Dayak puffs up like a cat that’s been mortally wronged by a cleaning implement. The yellow eyes really do it. “Do _not_ invoke the name of that lowlife in my presence!”

“Whoa!” If she’s going to scratch his face off, Hunk wants his hands free to shield his eyes. He drops the weights. “Sorry, sorry! I guess the name’s pretty sacrilegious – “

“It is not the name, but the man!”

“… uh, sure. Cooking doesn’t go with your tough Galra universe-conquering image – “

“A Galra who cannot cook is a disgrace!”

Hunk’s brain record-scratches so hard, he swears it hurts his ears. “Wait, _what?_ ”

“A true Galra,” Dayak lets him know with the species-patented sneer, “is able to provide for themselves under any circumstances. The skill of preparing adequate and attractive nourishment is a _vital_ part of a proper upbringing. Pray that you endure long enough to experience it under my tutelage!”

Under her tutelage. The scratched record in Hunk’s head goes spinning off the phonograph. She wants to teach him to cook. All true Galra can cook. _Lotor can cook_.

What if Zarkon’s secret weakness had been cake all along? It’s a nice fantasy for a moment, a rational universe in which things can be solved rationally, i.e. with food. Though, looking at Dayak, who’s about as thin and corded and tough as her switch, there’s the alarming idea that maybe Galra don’t have cake, either. Which wouldn’t reflect on their culture or anything, Alteans used to be basically magic space elves and they didn’t have milkshakes, but still. Bummer.

Should he ask? Dayak doesn’t even have to focus both eyes on him to get him to grab the weights and launch them to shoulder height again. She might get insulted. Does he really need to know?

Does he really _want_ to know?

 

~*~

 

“Blood cake.” Pidge gives him the kind of reflective-glasses look that says _I only believe you because you suck at lying_.

“ _Blood cake_ ,” Hunk nods. He’s sprawled across the couch in the Castle’s rec room, the space mice marching industrially across his aching lower back. Lance taught them to do a pretty good job, he really ought to thank his main man for that. “It’s called _dwoqra_. Same ‘ra’ as in Galra. The ‘bloodied people’, apparently.”

Pidge duly makes a note. Then she moves on to looking freaked.

“Do they use actual blood?”

“I dunno, that’s a way of using it I never tried – hey, don’t give me that!” He pushes himself up onto offended elbows and glares up from the tongue she sticks out in disgust. “It’s a perfectly common ingredient in a lot of cultures! You’ve got blood pudding, blood soup, blood tofu – that’s a real thing and it is _delicious_ – didn’t your grandma ever cook biroldo?”

Pidge just sticks out another inch of tongue she’s been keeping stashed somewhere, and Hunk has no choice but to deflate. Let her be an ignoramus. See if _he_ ever cooks her any biroldo.

“Actually, I didn’t get the recipe,” he mumbles, collapsing back onto his belly in shame.

The mice stop their pacing in shock. Even Pidge looks up from her permatyping. “Didn’t you ask?”

“No, of course I didn’t ask!” He glares at her, appalled. “It’s a big deal, Pidge! It’s like years of training ahead of my level!”

“Your training in the Galra Way,” Pidge deadpans.

It kind of stings. Not because she’s making fun of his training, because his training is pretty ridiculous, but because she doesn’t get what he’s trying to do here. And he loves Pidge so much that he’d literally die for her – which, unlike when Keith or Shiro say it, really _means_ something, because he’s _terrified_ of dying. So when she doesn’t get him, it kind of stings a lot. “Look, I mean it. It’s a big deal. Cooking’s really important in Galra culture. It’s tied in to their whole self-reliant warrior ethos. You can just note that down as strategic intel,” he says, petulantly but with insight, “but you still have to acknowledge it. I can’t just expect her to _give_ it to me. I have to get it myself. Gotta prove I’m worthy of it.”

“Worthy of the blood cake recipe,” Pidge echoes, still in a deadpan, but now she’s cradling her chin in that way he’s seen Matt use, which means that behind those impenetrable reflective glasses she’s thinking up plans.

Hunk waits with bated breath for the outpouring of genius, but after a moment Pidge just says, “Hunk?”

“Wha?”

“You’re really getting into this whole learning Galra culture thing.” She pinches the frame of her glasses between thumb and forefinger, like she wants to fix them on her nose. “Is that going to be a problem…?”

“Wha?” Hunk’s confused, but not for long. _Oh_. He might’ve been expecting that. Expecting it from Allura or Shiro, actually, or maybe from Keith – though, come to think of it, he actually would’ve been glad to have Keith here right now. It’s harder with Pidge – she’s, well, she’s _hard_. Even Shiro with all he’s been through, even Allura who’s lost her whole planet and people, aren’t hard in quite that way. Sometimes it scares him, because he loves her so much.

He’s got to tell her the truth here, because of that. He shakes his back a little to get the mice to stop and listen. This is serious business.

“I’m not gonna stop fighting when we have to fight,” he tells her, happy for once that he sucks at lying, because she knows he’s giving her the truth. “I know we have to. I remember the Balmera and I know, even if Lotor’s for real, a lot of the Galra generals aren’t just going to sit down with us for a slice of cake.” Though that would’ve been nice. Rational. “I guess… you know when you’re not good at sports, or, or fitting in, so you’ve got to get good at other stuff instead? Like cooking, or physics, or… I guess, I’m not so good at fighting. Not like Shiro and Keith and the rest of you guys are. But if I get good at this, I might, you know, have something. Just, be something good. Maybe after the fighting’s over, and we do, uh, whatever people do after that.”

It should be _go home_ , and for a moment he thinks that’s why Pidge is looking at him with eyes swimming. She knocks that worry right out, though, when she throws herself at him, hurls her arms around his torso, and hugs him so tight that he can almost forget he’s like three times her weight and size.

“You’re so pure and good!” she bawls. “How are you so good all the time!”

Hunk doesn’t know how to begin answering that, not without his eyes joining hers for a dip. “Uh… cake?”

That answer does get Pidge back on track – at least after she’s done squeezing the last few millilitres of air out of him. She wipes her nose on a sleeve, wipes her glasses on the other sleeve, and sits down to do some serious nerding.

“Okay, learn the culture of the proud warrior race guys, figure out how they like their blood.” And then, oh shit, she grins. “I think I know just where to start.”

 

~*~

 

“Excuse me but _how is this a thing?_ ” Hunk asks as the soprano hits the exact note that, he knows for a fact, shatters scaultrite.

Pidge shrugs an innocent shoulder. “It’s the cosmological constant. Proud warrior race aliens love their opera.”

From Hunk’s other side, their guide, a patriotic young officer who had been downright chuffed when the squishy humans asked for her species’ high-end musical traditions, leans in eagerly. “Our regimental troupe’s rendition of _Bloodbath at Balto_ is second to none!”

 _Bloodbath_. The Galra, Hunk decides, charitably, are very focused.

The regimental troupe – six singers, twelve stage crew, plus a whole gaggle of repurposed sentries in wigs and fake ears – scramble around their little stage in the Galra version of pre-show artistic nerves, which are a lot like Earth nerves except with the occasional clawed swipe to the face. A tiny cadet rushes around exhausted trying to keep everyone’s makeup claw-mark-free. On the bench next to him, Pidge keeps her shining glasses firmly fixed on the spectacle as the young officer waxes on about the manufacture of authentic fake guts for the battlefield scenes. It’s actually a romance, she explains, can’t have a romance without guts. As the lights in the cargo bay dim and the curtain swishes down over the mayhem, Hunk catches a final hiss from the director hissing a warning that her lead had better choke to death convincingly because the choking is Imperial Tutor Dayak’s favourite part.

“Are you putting this up for the Imperial Tutor?” he whispers to their guide, who passes him a tub of what must be space popcorn. Space blood popcorn.

The guide nods, beaming. “They say she used to sing the soprano when she was young. She might let us present before Emperor Lotor – maybe even Princess Allura! The princess should be exposed to the best of the Galra’s rich cultural heritage!”

Hunk tries to imagine Allura watching Galra opera. He stuffs his mouth with space popcorn.

The screen swishes back. Sentries move a couple of patrol beacons, flooding the stage with icy white light. The fake guts glisten authentically wherever they’ve been strewn. Pidge looks every bit the Green Paladin. Hunk swallows and steels himself as the star of the show comes on. At least his thundering bass drowns out the squelching of his boots.

“This is pretty sick,” Pidge mutters to him an hour later, while Khiz the Peerless, Conqueror of Balto, croons mournfully about having been deprived of the chance to kill his treacherous old lover with his own two hands.

“Well, she said it’s historically accurate…”

“Not helping, Hunk!”

“Hey, art’s intense, you know? No one calls Shakespeare sick, and Hamlet is literally everyone dies: the play – “

On stage, Khiz the Peerless crescendos through his finale while using a sentry’s own leg to bash its head in.

“This is not a culture that deserves cake,” Pidge says firmly.

“Oh, he’s about to choke to death!” Their guide straightens in her seat, eyes aglow with the delight of the connoisseur. “You need to know the context,” she whispers to Hunk and Pidge. “It’s traditional for Galra lovers about to go into combat together to take a poison only the other has the antidote for, so each of them can be the ultimate judge of whether the other is worthy.” She sighs, wistful. “Oh, the romance of it all!”

He’s going to need to match that enthusiasm, Hunk starts to think with mounting dread as Khiz’s lover, lit in ghostly purple-red, returns to belt a keening soprano through his death spasms. That’s why they’re here, after all: to show appreciation for the best of the Galra’s rich cultural heritage. Culinary enlightenment depends on it. He’s got to figure out a way to squeeze out some tears for Khiz the Peerless, at least. Maybe concentrate on the pain as the soprano pitch rises and rises…

The pitch abruptly turns from Galra virtuosity into a feedback screech. With a deafening pop, the speaker goes out.

“ _Nooooo!_ ” The director’s wail drowns out the crackling of spent electronics. She barrels out from behind the curtains, clutching and tearing at her ear-tufts. The troupe – wigged sentries, freshly choked conqueror and glum ghost included – crowds helplessly around her. She looks like she might cry. “Not again! How can this happen _every time_ we run this scene…!”

There’s a moment of silence. The little makeup cadet actually does start to cry. When the others speak up again, it’s seemingly all at once.

“Fifth one already…”

“We don’t have the budget for this.”

“Can’t you just sing louder?”

“I’m doing my best already! It’s that bastard quartermaster that’s assigning us equipment, he just hates good theatre.”

“I say we kill him.”

“Let’s go kill him!”

“No!” The director erupts once more, hurling her hands into the air to silence her star’s muttered _but it’ll make me feel better._ “That is _not_ the lesson of Khiz the Peerless,” she scolds the shuffling, humbled lot. “The conqueror of Balto would have us take responsibility for ourselves, like true Galra! If sing louder we must, then sing louder we will.”

The star coughs. “The galley chamber fits ten thousand –“

“As loud as it takes, soldier! _Opera or death!”_

Hunk clears his throat. “Uh, guys? I mean, ma’am?”

They all turn to look at him with varying degrees of shock – Pidge included, and her shock might be the greatest. He hops down from the improvised bleachers with what he hopes isn’t too audible a swallow, and picks a careful path around the troupe of Galra bristling with glares, high makeup, and prop swords that may or may not be just swords. Once he gets to the fried speaker, a sniff of the smoke and a couple of taps confirm his keen engineer’s intuition.

“No way,” Pidge says from beside to him. When did she even get there. Now it’s his turn to glare. If she laughs, they might literally _die_.

“I think we know what your problem is here.” He thumps the top of the speaker. “See, this is scaultrite-based trans-spatial amplification, right?”

“What do you know about opera, alien?” Khiz the Peerless sneers, but the director nods, intrigued.

Hunk thinks _vrepit sa!_ and doesn’t flinch. “Uh, not a lot, actually. But I do know about scaultrite – like, the frequencies that make it unstable, you can tell just by ear when there’s a problem, right, pretty sensitive material, don’t know why you use it in so much of this kind of tech – “ Pidge’s elbow, tiny and as sharp as a kitten’s claw, plunges into his gut. “Ow! Okay, right, what I’m saying is, your last aria hits just the right note to blow out your scaultrite.”

At his other side, the one that’s not being disembowelled by Pidge, their guide perks with the unequalled enthusiasm of a fangirl about to ascend. “I have a non-scaultrite personal speaker on me. Let’s test it!”

At this point, of course, the whole thing becomes a technical challenge, which means even Pidge pitches in, connecting and tweaking and testing and clapping with wild satisfaction at the acoustic triumph of Khiz the Peerless. The next thing he knows, Hunk is receiving a full formal military salute from eighteen deeply touched Galra, which he figures would be pretty mad props even in Dayak’s book.

“Thank you, thank you!” He waves a hand in humble dismissal of his exaltation even as he heroically bears the weight of the star’s massive clawed hand on his shoulder. “So, great run! Anyone else up for a little celebration? Maybe some… _dwoqra_ cake?”

The grins around him freeze. The bottom of Hunk’s stomach drops. Now would be a really bad time to find out that _dwoqra_ cake was what Khiz choked on or something…

“I see,” the director says archly, silencing the others’ murmurs. “Are you enduring the _palen-bol_ , young one?”

“So what if he is?” Pidge, bless her protective slash murderous little heart, challenges in return.

The director clicks her tongue. “Your attempt was admirable, from an alien. But sitting through _Bloodbath at Balto_ to earn your _dwoqra_ recipe is utterly insufficient. You are meant to brave an ordeal, not an evening of light entertainment!”

Pidge and Hunk don’t look at each other. Neither of them comments.

“But since you have been such a remarkable help,” the director continues, all benevolence, “it would be my pleasure to train you in the operatic arts when the time comes. I sang with Imperial Tutor Dayak in a troupe once, you know. I’m wise to all her secret methods. We’ll get you singing the soprano in no time!”

 

~*~

 

“This,” Hunk announces as he and Pidge come barrelling onto the Castle’s bridge minutes later, not even trying to shrug off Shiro’s baffled look, “is the best-timed strategy call ever made.”

Given his recent experience with Galra, he almost expects Kolivan, there on the screen, to take him at face value and demand to know what ground-breaking intel they have. But Kolivan’s a pro, so all he and Pidge get is a flat look of _spare me your Earthling shenanigans._ Then he and Shiro get right to business. War to win, as you do.

Hunk listens, because he’s a good Paladin and he knows about fighting when they have to fight and all that, but he’s also thinking. Thinking about Galra cake. Kolivan mentions Keith’s top-secret top-priority mission and Shiro looks sombre and proud. What would Keith’s feelings be about Galra cake? Does _dwoqra_ taste anything like seonji-guk? Would taking Keith to see _Bloodbath at Balto_ be the worst idea ever, or just the second-worst after offering to make him Galra cake?

“Hunk?” A metal hand waves in front of his eyes. Hunk blinks as Shiro squints at him. “You with us?”

Right, snapping to attention time. “Uprising in Eldora, supply lines to Jarre, still no word from super-secret Keith.” Hunk knows nothing if not how to multitask while thinking about food.

Shiro nods, looking at bit relieved as he turns back round to Kolivan, which figures. If there’s one guy even Shiro could take lessons on always being on duty from… “Like you said, Kolivan, we’re not letting our guard down. I promise you, we’re more aware than ever of the capabilities of the Galra empire, and we’re taking every opportunity to learn more. In fact, “ and, oh shit, is he going to – “how is that progressing, Hunk?”

Shit, he did not. Hunk stares at his leader, betrayed and appalled. Does Shiro not realize he sucks at lying? Is he going to make him talk to Kolivan about Galra opera? “Well, uh. I’ve been learning about Galra military history… the conquest of Balto…” _Historically accurate_ , she said. “It’s been, uh, strategically enlightening…”

“Did you watch the opera?” Kolivan intones.

His tone is unreadable, but Hunk is an old hand at being judged and is already prepared for the worst. The scarred old Blade sighs through his nose. _Sigh_.

Instead of the worst, though, Kolivan says, “It is a classic. A remnant of a nobler, truer empire, before Zarkon and his ways have shamed my people. When we were conquerors, but not oppressors. We decimated our enemies, yes, but we uplifted our allies, preserved our territories in safety and honour, let our vassal planets keep their dignity, their customs, even their ambitions. Before quintessence…” _Sigh_ , as deep as the abyss of space. “The Galra have fallen far.”

It’s probably the most words any of them have ever heard Kolivan say that weren’t directly related to saving the universe. Hunk is at a loss there. He draws little comfort from how everyone, Shiro included, appear to be in the same deeply awkward boat. “We’ll make it right, Kolivan,” Shiro says in that mentorly sort of tone of his. Like he can Space Dad Kolivan, which he really cannot. The old Galra says nothing for a while, just stares into space, noble and tragic.

When he looks at them again it is directly at Hunk. “Were they good?”

Hunk thinks he should be over shock as a concept by now. And yet here he is. “You mean the singers?”

“The main duo, Khiz and Molat. Were they good? Those are extremely challenging roles. And of course, Khiz requires looks as well as skill. In the holo-adaptation I watched as a boy, the lead was…” Kolivan pauses. The corners of his mouth honest-to-god twitch. “He left an impression at a critical age.”

His questioning eyes on Hunk are still sharp. Hunk opens his mouth and closes it. He has no idea what constitutes impressive Galra looks. Pidge is glaring at him from the corner of her eye. He can hear her in his head. _Did you just make Kolivan tell us about his sexual awakening?_

“Uh, the singers were…” what was that nice word he’d used with Pidge? “Intense.”

“To human ears, no doubt.” Kolivan nods with benevolent understanding. “Few other races appreciate Galra culture. The Blades have little time for frivolity, but we celebrate what we can. We have our hobbyists. The ancient Galra knew that it is our true way to – hmmm – work hard and play hard.”

“Did Keith teach you that phrase?” Pidge blurts out before Hunk can remark that Keith wouldn’t know how to play hard if he had to fight to the death for it.

Kolivan frowns. “No, it was your brother. But Keith… would perhaps benefit from being acquainted with his cultural heritage.”

Shiro coughs.

“Perhaps when times are different,” the old Blade says quickly, almost apologetic _._ “Now, we were discussing –“

It’s going to be war again in 0.2 seconds. Hunk instantly knows what he needs to do. He’s got one chance. Make like a Galra and thrust. “Hey, Kolivan, Can I just ask you about one thing? A Galra culture thing? I’ll make it real quick. Two more minutes. Paladin’s honour.”

Kolivan looks surprised but gratified. _Bingo._ “What is it?”

“You know this thing called _dwoqra_? It’s like a cake?” He tries not to notice Shiro mouthing at Pidge, though it’s very noticeable, _that’s what he’s learning? To make Galra cake?_

“Of course. It’s a staple. Especially favoured by children.”

“Right.” Blood cake for the whole family. “So do you know what the ingredients are, or – “

Kolivan’s whole face changes. Hunk has seen this expression on him before, all right. He’d describe it as _fire and fury that are disappointed in you._ He flinches. Pidge flinches. Even Shiro flinches, and looks at Hunk like Hunk, if you just destroyed the alliance with the Blades of Marmora over cake –

“I may be fighting against my people’s empire,” Kolivan rumbles, “but I have my pride in our ways. And it is not our way to simply _give_ the recipe to our cakes.” He pulls his back even straighter, because somehow that’s possible. “Sweetness must come at the price of service.”

Piloting the leg of a giant robot fighting a cosmic empire sounds like pretty significant service, Hunk wants to protest, but no amount of _vrepit sa_ can make him talk back to Kolivan right now.

“Endure your teaching pain, Paladin,” the leader of the Blades concludes, as icy as a dead star – and then it’s back to war-winning. So much for uplifting your allies, Hunk thinks, embittered. He had better at least get a chance to hear Keith try to sing Galra opera out of this conversation.

 

~*~

 

“I can’t believe you’re making me picture Kolivan’s first boner over dinner,” Lance grumbles, though Hunk notes that it doesn’t stop him taking another mouthful of Hunk’s special patented space pastelitos.

“I can’t believe Kolivan made us picture it, period,” Hunk groans, sticking his forehead against the countertop. Telling Lance about the conversation has done nothing to scrub away his mental image. The space pastelitos too have brought him nothing but frustration. What’s the point of using alien ingredients just to replicate Earth food? Where’s the sense of wonder, the boldly-going? “What am I gonna do, Lance?”

“About Kolivan’s boner?”

“No! About the Galra cake!” He throws his head back and slams his palms flat on the counter in frustration. “Ugh, it’s driving me crazy! I’m gonna have to suck it up and let Dayak act out her fetishes on me. You think Galra have safe words? I don’t think Galra have safe words.”

“Could we please move on from Galra porn?” Lance clamps his hands over his ears and shuts his eyes. After a beat, he opens one again, smirking. “Hey, why don’t you ask Lotor? Tell him it’s a show of trust!” He drops his voice, cups a hand to his mouth. “The empire’s darkest secret… the secret of cake…”

Hunk knows he should be laughing, but it doesn’t happen. Weird. Lance wriggles his fingers ominously for a bit, but stops again before long – also weird. It’s doing weird things to them, this Voltron thing. This being Paladins thing. This Zarkon being dead and buddying up with Lotor and the war maybe, someday, being over thing. Lance leans on the table, his chin on his hand, and looks Hunk over with the most serious expression he’s got. Which, Lance. But still.

“Look, Hunk,” he says. “I don’t want to ruin your cake diplomacy thing. It’d be great if Lotor’s secret weakness was food, and we could all just sit down and go home after lunchtime.” And Hunk could absolutely kiss him just for that, before he sighs. “But it’s the Galra, you know? I mean, can you even picture one that’s like us? Like you and me. _Normal_ , not a scary prince like Lotor or a super-soldier like Sendak or like Kolivan. Or even Keith. Someone who’s just a guy. A Galra guy. Or a gal-ra. You know…”

Hunk is just about to remark that it is a terrible thing to employ a pun in the service of besmirching an entire alien race when it hits him. He _does_ know.

“Lance, you’re a genius.” Just to stress the point he promptly passes no fewer than three pastelitos to Lance’s plate from his own. Lance straightens in surprise.

“Huh? I mean _yeah_ , but – “

“Don’t worry about it. I got it all worked out. Hey, could you and Pidge do me a favour? A really quick one, won’t take a dobosh?”

Lance smirks again and shoots him a pair of well-aimed finger guns. “For our Galra cultural liaison? Anything.” Then he pales. “Just don’t harvest my blood for cake.”

 

~*~

 

Creating enough of a distraction for Hunk to sneak in and tweak Galra Central Command’s communications array? A trivial pursuit for two Paladins of Voltron. It’s not two hours before he’s sitting in front of a personal computer, composing himself as the outgoing call rings. He’s got it all worked out. And if Dayak finds out – well, victory or death.

“Vrepit Sal’s takeaway, what can I get you?”

Hunk puts on his best talking to totally normal people face. “Hey, Sal.”

“Kid!” Sal lights up like a wok fire. “Where have you been?” He’s redecorated, Hunk notes with some sincere appreciation. The joint behind him looks polished and well-kept, with holozine frames on the walls showing Sal beaming and shaking hands with – didn’t they defeat that Galra commander just last week? The call brings through the bustle of a busy but effective kitchen. “I put it all over the quadrant that I was looking to hire you back in!”

“Yeah, that’s, actually a funny story…” Not his opening pitch, oh no. “But looks like you’ve really turned things around!”

Sal rubs the back of his meaty neck with a meaty hand and grins bashfully. “ _You_ turned me around, kid. Vrepit Sal’s in every dining guide this side of the galactic core now. I even opened a second branch a while ago, let Ylvu run it. Hey, Ylvu, guess who’s calling – “ Behind him, the little old blue alien lady waves with frantic enthusiasm. She is _blinged_. She is the blinged-est little old lady Hunk has seen in his life. “I think she’s richer than Emperor Lotor by now.”

It is the most bizarre kind of heartwarming but he’ll take it. “Glad to hear it – “

“I really built on what you taught me back then. Changed my life. Everything I do now is thanks to you – “

“Naw, I just gave you the basics, this is all you, Sal – “

“No, listen, kid.” Sal leans into the camera, huge and purple and adoring. “You know how I ended up serving slop in a space mall? I was a shit soldier. That was all I was good for. Every Galra that’s ever heard of me used to make fun of me, and I didn’t even care. It took you, an alien, to remind me that cooking isn’t just sustenance. It’s Galra _pride_.” He slams a fist against his chest with sternum-cracking strength, all teary-eyed imperial fervour. “Now I get orders from Central Command every other day. I’m having to secure my channel with Ylvu so they don’t listen in on our recipe planning…”

Hunk sees his chance to get back within five light-years of his original track and seizes it. “Oh hey, you want a hand with that? Since I’m in Central Command already and – oh, quiznak.”

There goes his foot in his mouth. The whole giant lion robot leg, even. Sal’s saucer-round eyes leave no room for doubt that this conversation is not going to go the way he’s planned it to. Hunk twitches. “Yeah, I… wasn’t going to really tell you that…”

 “You were ordered to Central Command?”

“No, I just…”

“Are you the Emperor’s cook?!”

“Well I. I fight for him.” Twitch. “More like with him.” Twitch. “More like I’m a paladin. Of Voltron.”

Sal makes a noise that strongly implies he might stop breathing at any moment. “I got taught to cook by a Paladin of Voltron!” he booms at Ylvu.

“Yeah, uh, that’s funny how that happened…”

“A chef and a warrior! Kid, you’re an inspiration.” Sal thumps Ylvu on the back in lieu of Hunk himself. She almost goes flying but gives a gleeful thumbs-up. “Hey, could you just namedrop me to the Emperor? Love to have him visit, maybe get a picture of him for my wall! I’m only keeping the one with Commander Gnov because it really shows my good side…”

Hunk flounders briefly. No wonder Coran never tried to make him the big star of the show, he thinks with some bitterness. This is a golden chance to exploit his celebrity status. Could be a great marketing opportunity for Sal, too. The Master Chef who taught the Yellow Paladin how to make _dwoqra_ cake…

God, it’s so ruthless. He can’t be like that and maybe tarnish his wholesome image in Sal’s eyes if he reacts like the director or Kolivan did. Not Vrepit Sal. “You’re really okay with Lotor being emperor, huh? Even though he’s working with Voltron?”

Sal blinks with surprise and shrugs. “Hey, he lit the Kral Zera, didn’t he? That makes him my emperor. Galra got rules about those things.”

“And you don’t mind that he killed Zarkon? That he’s a half-breed?”

“Eh, so what? We had Zarkon for ten thousand years. What has Zarkon ever done for us? It’s good to have a change, get a taste of something new. Keeps us fighting sharp.” He goes back to beaming at Hunk like it’s the most obvious thing. “You tell Emperor Lotor I’m right behind him!”

Hunk has no idea how Emperor Approval Polls work, but it occurs to him that Lotor might actually be happy to hear that. Pidge too, she might want the strategic intel on the working Galra on the street. And Lance, about normal guys. And Keith, and…

Something clicks. “Sure thing, Sal.” He puts a matching fist against his chest. “I’ll make sure he knows.”

“You’re a star, kid.”

“It’s Hunk. And, hey, Sal? You mind doing me a solid, too?” Sal nods, of course. “I need the recipe for _dwoqra_ cake.”

To Vrepit Sal’s credit, at least he doesn’t turn all _sturm und drang_ like Kolivan, though behind his back, Ylvu gives a long silent _ooooooooh!_ He does scowl and cradle his chin with a hand, and give Hunk a once-over, under which Hunk absolutely does not sweat – except on the inside, where he’s going to need a gallon of deodorant. Finally, Sal crosses his massive Galra arms.

“You doing the _palen-bol_?”

“Yeah.” _Like_ , _totally_. “But I’m not gonna be able to hang around and finish it. You know, Voltron business. Imperial stuff.”

“You know we’re not supposed to just hand it out.” Sal’s massive Galra chest puffs out, with a bit of help from his tucked-in belly. “That’s not the rules.”

“Not the _Galra_ rules,” Hunk points out. “I’m an alien. What’s the rules about teaching it to aliens?”

Sal’s massive Galra mouth opens, then closes. He scratches an ear. He even sneaks a surreptitious glance at Ylvu, who shrugs one shoulder.

“Y’know, I don’t think we have any,” he says slowly. “We’ve never really done that kind of thing.”

“It’s a change,” Hunk agrees.

“Yeah, it’s, uh… it’s a pretty big one, kid. I mean, Hunk.”

“What, bigger than changing emperors after ten thousand years?” Sal’s attempt at renewed sternness visibly wavers. Hunk goes for the killing thrust. “Look, Sal, truth is, I’m not gonna make a great Galra warrior. Even as a Paladin, I’m – well, it’s not like I suck or anything, but you know, I’m pretty so-so. Six out of ten? Seven? The point is, there’s more to the Galra than that, and no one knows it better than you. You’re the proof that the Galra can change without losing your pride. You’ve changed, the emperor’s changed – now the empire’s changing, and if we want this to work, we’re gonna have to figure out some new rules. And I don’t know any better way to do that than to start with cake. That’s the beauty of cake. You have to sit down and sensibly figure out how you’re going to cut it to make everyone happy.”

“You don’t cut _dwoqra_ cake,” Sal says sombrely. “The initiate who bakes it gets to decide who gets the whole thing. The junior students have to fight for the privilege.” And Hunk’s heart sinks, because there’s only so much culture shock he can take in a day, until Sal gives a decisive sniff and a nod. “But you’re right, Hunk. It’s time for a change. You might not be a Galra warrior, but as a Galra chef, I say you’ve earned it.”

Hunk’s heart buoys right back up, expands in his chest like it’s unlocked some secret lion robot power. He grabs for his recipe notebook, where he still writes by hand because tradition _does_ matter. He’s going to bake Dayak the best blood cake ever and write _thank you_ on it in Galra purple –

“Okay, so.” His body is ready. “To start with… what kind of blood _is_ it?”

Vrepit Sal bursts out laughing. For the umpteenth time that day, Hunk prepares himself for the worst.

 

~*~

 

Allura is looking at the stars when he finds her. Hunk isn’t sure about looking for her, initially – the last few days have been all Lotor all the time, and that’s not exactly the setting he’s envisioned for his grand unveiling – but as soon as he sees her on the rec room couch, staring with ethereal princessly gloom out the window, he knows he’s right on time.

She startles a bit when she sees him with the box under his arm. He waves his free hand before she can pull herself all the way back into Confident Princessly Composure.

“Hey, Allura. You okay?”

“Hunk.” She smiles at him, but she can’t hold it. The temptation to ask what’s Lotor done and go beat him up with a shoulder cannon is strong, but Hunk has had a learning experience of a day, and besides that’s not his style. He plonks his butt down next to her and waits for her to open up.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Allura puts her hands in her lap, palms up, and drops her gaze to them. “How is your… Galra culture training going?”

Hunk grins. “Pretty great, actually. I only got whipped like, six times today?” He can practically see her ears perk in outrage. “Hey, it’s progress!”

“Such violence,” Allura mutters. She’s lost for a moment. He waits. She sighs. “The more I spend time with Lotor, the more I wonder… about the end of the war. He’s so eager to speak about Altea. I know how happy he is to find someone to share this part of his heritage with, but I still know so little about the Galra. I thought I knew all I needed to. They destroyed my home.” For a moment there’s that fire, the ghost of a whole planet roaring behind her bright blue eyes, and Hunk thinks of the Blue Lion. Then it flickers. “But now… I think about the peace Lotor and I hope to forge, if we work together. The Galra will not simply be gone. I don’t want that kind of vengeance.”

“Yeah,” Hunk says quietly. He wonders if anyone’s ever said that to her. “You know what they say about an eye for an eye? So, that, except for planets.”

It’s not smooth – he’s not Lance, or, well, Lotor – but she does smile faintly before the rest of everything comes tumbling out. “I just can’t imagine what place the Galra will have in a peaceful universe. Even the Blades of Marmora have struggled in the coalition. Even if Lotor succeeds in dismantling the empire, what will the Galra be? How will they live – how will we live with them?”

She stares at her hands, distraught, but Hunk can’t help it. His grin is huge. He puts a hand on one of hers and gets her to glance up in surprise. “Allura, you trust me, right?”

“I – yes?”

“Then close your eyes and open your mouth.”

She does and stays obediently still without peeking while he fiddles with the box. He feeds her a small piece, just enough to let her sink her teeth into the creamy texture. Allura’s eyebrows go right for her hairline. “Hunk, what is this?” she asks around the kind of vigorous lip-licking that warms a chef’s heart.

“It’s _dwoqra_. Galra blood cake.” It’s a sure sign of that trust she has in him that she doesn’t spit it all in his face. She opens her eyes wide to stare at him, but Hunk can’t stop grinning. “Don’t ask what I had to do to get the recipe. It’s a rite of passage for them. They keep it secret from everyone who hasn’t done their adulthood test. I had to know how that worked. You can use blood in bread and there’s chocolate blood recipes on Earth – but cake, wow, that’s different. I just couldn’t figure that out. You know when something just sticks with you and – okay, right, I got the big secret. You wanna know what I found out?”

Allura, mouth tight, nods frantically. Hunk leans in and whispers in boundless delight.

“ _It’s red berry jam._ It’s not really blood at all. They just call it that to make their kids think they’re tough blood-eating Galra warriors. That’s why it’s so hush-hush.” Allura still stares at him wide-eyed, but a baffled, relieved, delighted little giggle escapes her. Hunk thinks his face might crack. “It’s basically Galra Santa Claus.”

“What kind of food is Santa Claus?” Allura asks, mystified.

Hunk figures they’re not going to be here all day, so he just waves a hand and offers her the open box instead, forks already inside. “I’ll tell you later. About the Galra, though, I think you shouldn’t – I mean, you totally should worry and it’s really complex and obviously cake doesn’t solve the cultural politics of universal post-imperialism. But it’s a place to start, right? For when the war ends, and we think about – about what we do after?”

“After,” Allura whispers. She glances up again at all the stars they have to free.

But she also takes another slice of cake, and it’s a start. Yeah, it’s a start.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Keith hates Galra cake but loves Galra opera.


End file.
